


Serving Oberon

by seleneheart



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Episode Tag, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-03-06
Updated: 2021-03-06
Packaged: 2021-03-12 12:00:19
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,609
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29884242
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/seleneheart/pseuds/seleneheart
Summary: Kidnapped by Puck, Dean is given to King Oberon as a present
Relationships: Oberon (Midsummer Night's Dream)/Dean Winchester
Comments: 4
Kudos: 4





	Serving Oberon

**Author's Note:**

> For uisgich on her birthday - she wanted a fairy tale. Hope you like it!! This is an episode tag for "Clap If You Believe"; inspired by Rupert Everett as Oberon and Stanley Tucci as Puck; borrowed a few of Shakespeare's words

The cornstalks whipped by him as he ran; the rough leaves scratched his hands and face as he pushed through them.

A man stepped out of the mist in front of him and Dean slid to a stop. The moonlight revealed the figure as a half naked man with a strap of leather across his chest. He wore some sort of furry pants. Dean gaped in shock as his gaze drifted to the man’s feet, which appeared to be goat hooves. The man walked forward and Dean decided that the furry things weren’t pants at all – his engorged penis rose out of the fur and pointed towards Dean.

“Stop and go, to and fro, now it’s time to go . . . with me!”

Reaching forward, the man poked Dean in the forehead and he lurched, the ground giving way underneath his feet. He fell.

Landing with a thump on the thick duff of the forest floor, Dean rolled over, crouching to make himself the smallest target possible. He didn’t know what the goat-footed man planned for him, but he would be damned if he wouldn’t go down fighting.

“What foul filth hast thou brought to my domain?” a voice demanded.

Cautiously raising his head, Dean looked around. The first thing he noticed was a throne on a raised dais with two bare-chested women crouching on its arms. ‘Boobies’ his mind pointed out helpfully, but then he noticed that they had lion bodies, and thought, ‘oh shit’ instead.

“The hour of thy birth grows close apace, liege,” the goat-legged man answered. “None of my offerings have yet to turn your eye and lift your melancholy mien. I thought to tempt you with a different sort of sweet, one whose sugar is tempered with the bitter.”

He bowed extravagantly towards the throne, where another man lounged. Dean stared at the man, wondering how he missed him on the first glance and then reminding himself about the boobies. The man wore a crown of golden leaves and a scrap of material that draped like a toga, but barely covered anything. Most of Dean’s experience with togas came from re-watches of _Animal House_ , but this man looked nothing like a drunken frat boy. 

“But this you know . . . that I like my toys to be virgin pure. This one is surrounded by demons and renegade angels.”

“Very wise, my liege,” the first man said. He waved his hands at Dean, who felt a sudden rush of cool air over his body. “And yet he is most radiant fair.”

Abruptly realizing that he had lost his clothes, Dean covered his groin. “Hey now!”

The crowned man stood up and descended the stairs, his eyes locked on Dean’s body. Dean felt a blush coming on, and wondered why this man caused such a reaction when he’s been the bitch of both demons and angels. He should be well beyond any embarrassment over something as minor as nudity.

“In truth, Robin Goodfellow, your eye is far keener than your wits. This gift I deem fit for my bower.”

“Hail, Oberon,” the Robin person said, going down to one knee.

“Hail Oberon, King of all the fairy realm,” the rest of the company echoed.

“Yet the sight of him is nearly overwhelmed by the odor of him,” the king proclaimed. “Do take him to yon rushing brook and fit him to receive my grace.”

Dean supposed that Oberon meant that he needed a bath, which he wouldn’t argue, given the fear sweat from his dash through the cornfields and the extended time he had spent on the road in the last few months. Funny – one of the unexpected joys of living with Lisa was the opportunity to bathe regularly and frequently. Growing up as he had, Dean was used to going days without a shower. With Sam back and things the way they always had been, of all the thing he could regret, Dean thought that daily showers was among the most trivial. So he followed the fairies without argument, although the wings growing out of their naked backs made him uneasy. He should be used to wings . . . not that he had seen Castiel’s much, just that one time. But Castiel was one thing. As far as he knew, fairies weren’t bound by any sort of rules. They were the epitome of wild and untrammeled magic.

They led him into a pool beneath a tumbling waterfall. The water was chilly until one of the fairies touched the surface of the pool and whispered a word. The water warmed a tolerable temperature and Dean relaxed slightly. One of the girls picked up a cloth and advance on Dean. She wore yellow scarves around her body and her wings were as green as her hair.

“Hey, no. Wait. I’ve been bathing myself for years,” Dean protested, trying to grab the cloth and shove the girl away without hurting her. He put a hand over his groin, trying to cover himself, although he knew they’d already seen all he had.

Another fairy stepped up and wrapped her fingers around his wrist. Dean struggled but her grip was surprisingly strong for someone who looked like a puff of wind would blow her away.

“The King’s toys do not touch themselves, such is our law.” The girl wore a lacy dress that really did nothing to cover her, but made Dean want to stare more to see what wasn’t particularly well hidden. Small white flowers adorned her dark hair and her wings were as lacy as her dress.

“Okay, listen, you . . . what is your name anyway?”

“Yarrow.”

“All right, Yarrow. I’ve been washing myself for years. I don’t need help.”

“You may not do so,” Yarrow responded.

A third girl took his other wrist, pulling his arm away from his body. Dean twisted, feeling panicked, and tugging at their grip. “I wouldn’t think the king would want his property alarmed.”

“It may be so, but if you would calm your mind, we could proceed with dispatch,” the third girl said. She smelled delicious and was wearing, or not wearing . . . scraps of filmy fabric in shades of blue and purple. Her light blonde hair had purple flowers scattered through its strands.

“Who are you?”

“I am named Lavender.”

Under normal circumstances, Dean would be thrilled to be naked with three hot chicks, all of them nearly as undressed as he, but their wings were freaky and he knew that they had no intention of messing around with him. He tried not to think about what they were actually preparing him for.

The fairy with the washcloth reached up and rubbed his temples.

“Hush, young one. I am Rue. Your mortal hands may not touch the property of the king of the fairies without his leave. We will not harm you.”

Her touch was soothing, and Dean stopped fighting. The other two didn’t release his hands though, perhaps deciding that they wanted to avoid any further troubles from the king’s newest fancy.

Rue washed him thoroughly. Humiliatingly thoroughly. If he had any doubts as to what being the king’s ‘toy’ involved, his questions were pretty much answered by his bath. She scrubbed his armpits, sniffing several times before she was satisfied. She paid attention to the spaces between his fingers and toes, rooting out any hint of dirt. She lifted his balls and delved between his ass cheeks, even as Dean tried to clench to prevent the invasion. But her fingers were insistent and he forced himself to relax, ignoring the flush of humiliation that spread across his face and down his neck.

When they finished with him, they wove sprigs of flowers in his hair, although he didn’t know how they managed it, because his hair really wasn’t long enough for that sort of bullshit. He expected to get a toga or something, but instead Lavender knelt and tied a garland of flowers low on his hips. As clothing, it did nothing to cover anything at all and made him feel more naked than he did before because the blooms seemed to draw attention to his genitals.

Rue led the way back to the king, holding a basket of flower petals that suddenly appeared in her hands and tossing out handfuls in the path so that Dean was forced to walk on them. For some reason, being barefoot made him more nervous than being nearly naked. His feet were usually hidden away in thick-soled boots, protected and safe. Nothing about this seemed safe. The fairies weren’t as obviously threatening as say, a demon or a werewolf, but they were powerful, no doubt. Dean distrusted power.

King Oberon waited, lounging on his throne again, seemingly bored. Robin Goodfellow stood to the side, in attendance on the king. Dean was relieved to see that the dude wasn’t sporting that enormous prick outside his pants anymore.

Rue, Lavender, and Yarrow ranged themselves behind Dean, his honor guard or perhaps they were there to prevent his flight. As Oberon stood up, Dean decided that he had been raped by far uglier things. He was having a really hard time finding anything else positive about the situation.

Robin stepped forward and went down to one knee. “Hail, Oberon, King of all the Faerie Realm. Accept this trifling gift from your loyal servant, Puck.”

He picked up Dean’s hand as Oberon walked down the steps of the throne. The King held his own hand out, and Puck placed Dean’s fingers in the clasp of the King’s. Dean panicked a little at the marriage aspect of what was happening. He knew as well as any hunter that magic could do unexpected things and the least gesture could mean something. He could deal with the impending sexual assault, but he feared setting any magical bonds in place. But he stilled his fear with effort.

Oberon looked at him as though he knew what Dean was thinking, but his warm fingers curled around Dean’s, not to prevent him from running, but to reassure him, perhaps. 

“I accept thy gift, good Robin. I shall retire to make myself free with thy most generous offering.” He turned to the rest of his court. “I do not require guards or witnesses to my tryst, nor attendants. It is my command that the fair folk shall enjoy their revels while the night lasts.”

He turned, leading Dean around the throne. Dean was mildly grateful that the king ensured that the rest of the fae wouldn’t witness his subjugation. Another small mercy. Dean grasped anything he could to keep himself from screaming.

Behind the throne, they encountered a wall of thorn bushes. Oberon waved his hand and the briars drew back, revealing a path that wound away into the undergrowth. Dean followed the fairy king obediently, although he worried about the sharp prickles scratching his vulnerable skin. Nothing touched him, however.

Looking back, Dean saw that the path had disappeared completely, leaving no sign of its presence. He didn’t doubt that if he tried to get away, the thorns would trap him quickly enough.

The brush opened up to a grotto roofed with more briars. The hollow dipped down into a bowl where yards of cloth softened the ground. The air smelled of more herbs and flowers, but the scent was faint and not enough to bother Dean. Light came from some source Dean couldn’t discover, diffuse and warm. Baskets and bowls adorned the stumps of ancient trees.

Oberon stepped to the center of the glade and settled himself gracefully amidst the fabric. Dean followed, sitting down awkwardly while he tried to prevent giving the king a free look at his crotch. The king threw him another look that suggested he knew what Dean was thinking. Fighting a blush again, Dean forced himself to relax, straightening his legs out and mimicking the king’s posture of idle ease. Hopefully, Oberon wouldn’t see how much of an act it was.

The king smiled at him.

“Because you have pleased me, so I will give you a choice,” Oberon pronounced.

 _A choice?_ Dean was pretty sure that if he said ‘let me go’ then he wouldn’t get what he asked for.

The king reached into one of the bowls and picked up a scarlet flower, twirling in his fingers. “This the maidens name Love-in-idleness. If I but place a single drop of nectar from this flower in thine eyes, then do you come unto me as a bride unto her lover, full of wanton eagerness. My every touch will bring you joy.”

“You want to _roofie_ me?” 

“I could perchance take what I desire, will ye or nil ye,” Oberon said, and vines rose up from the bower, encircling Dean’s wrists and ankles, spreading him wide and helpless before the fairy king.

Memories assaulted him . . . of Hell and Alastair, and Zacharias, and all the other times where Dean had no control of his body or his life.

“No,” he cried out.

“Then I have one last choice to lay before your consideration,” Oberon said, and the vines disappeared, leaving Dean wanting to curl up and hide.

“Choice about how I’m gonna be raped? That’s a new one.” With effort, he injected as much sarcasm as possible into his tone.

Giving him an enigmatic look, Oberon said, “If it suits you to think it so.”

“Fine. What is it?”

“You have been given to me in earnest of my birth day, a gift from my most loyal vassal if not my most competent one. Let me treat you as such, a thing to be treasured.”

“You want me to say ‘yes’ so you won’t feel so guilty about raping me,” Dean accused.

An amused smirk flitted across the king’s face. “You mistake my moral code, fair mortal. As I am king, so am I due. Of this one thing, my mind is quite reposed. It matters little to me what you chose, as I will have you without quarrel on your part.”

“Then why would you care?”

“Acceptance of a gift is an honor to the giver. If you doth take my gift of pleasure, then you thus increase the value of that pleasure.” The king gazed off, staring at the wall of thorns that ring the hollow. “It suits my mind that you have need of this. Ever warring forces gather ‘round you, much to your despite. Yet here in Elfland, the bitter world draws back, and you have space removed from time. None may touch you here, and when I do as I fear I must and send you back into the battle you had no thought to choose, I would farewell you with the peace of Faerie on you.”

Something about the speech made Dean want to cry. He cleared his throat. “You’re suggesting I need a little R and R?”

“I grow weary of your stalling. How do you choose?”

“Fine. Yes. Do . . . whatever.” Dean couldn’t quite bring himself to ask the king to fuck him.

He expected Oberon to pounce on him, but instead the King of the Fairies did nothing in particular. He twirled the blood red flower between his fingers, staring at it, lost in thought again. Finally, Oberon turned back to Dean, but instead of the assault that Dean expected, the fairy king merely wove the Love-in-idleness into the circlet of flowers surrounding Dean’s head.

Tingles spread over Dean’s scalp where the king’s fingers brushed against his hair as he worked.

“That’s, uh, not going to . . . uh, drug me, is it? Through my scalp, I mean.”

“I would name thee a foolish mortal, heedless of lore, yet I know that you are not so. Did you not mark my saying? Only in the eyes can the juice of this herb affect the heart.”

“Oh, yeah. Right.”

Oberon touched one of the freckles on Dean’s shoulder, but he made no further move. Dean waited tensely, his muscles quivering with the effort of not giving into his flight instinct and getting the fuck out of there.

Long moments passed and nothing happened.

Dean got impatient, wanting the ordeal over with, especially if the king kept his word and sent Dean back. “What are you waiting for?”

“You.”

Him? Oh, yeah, his ‘consent’. He wasn’t supposed to be fighting this. He forced himself to relax. He had long practice at sending his mind off somewhere else while his body endured, like all the times he had to hustle to keep Sammy fed and when Zacharias did . . . those things. Dean stared up through the tangled branches above them to the night sky, willing his mind to ignore what was happening to his body. The feeling was like the mythical subspace, he thought, except it wasn’t for pleasure, merely survival. Dean felt his body gradually go limp, pliant and accepting of what was going to happen. He sorted through his happy memories, settling on the one he’d nearly forgotten until recent events brought it back to mind – the fireworks with Sam. He concentrated on that and tried to forget where he was and what would come next.

After a while, Dean finally realized that the message his body was giving him was that nothing had happened to him. He dragged his gaze back down to the king, only to find Oberon staring at him, sadness in his eyes.

“Fair mortal, you are yet so very young in the sight of my eyes.”

“I was young once,” Dean argued gruffly. “Not any more.”

“Perhaps not in the counting of your race.”

“Not by any count,” Dean said sharply. Not after more than thirty years on Earth and forty more in Hell. He wanted to cry again and wanted to curse the stupid fairy king for making him remember things best left forgotten. His worries came winging back – the Campbells’ agenda, Sam’s alarming behavior, the battle in Heaven, and all the other monsters out there. He was stuck in fairyland while the world stumbled from one disaster to the next.

Oberon didn’t argue, but his index finger made small circles over the freckle that had caught his attention earlier. Dean really expected a lot more actual assault from the whole thing, and he was a little miffed that the fairy seemed to want to draw the process out.

Seeing as the king seemed content to wait forever for whatever it was that he wanted from Dean, and Dean knew that he personally didn’t have all the time in the world to waste in Elfland, Dean decided he’d better figure out what he was supposed to be doing.

Oberon had said he was a gift . . . something to be treasured. Dean agreed to fill that role. He hadn’t fought the king or resisted anything. His body was relaxed, prepared to be fucked. Dean had to concede that his mind wasn’t ready for it though. His mind had wandered off, trying to hide away from anticipated pain and other things it didn’t want to face.

The king had asked him to take the gift of pleasure, which meant that Dean couldn’t just lie there and think of England. The king wanted more from him. Dean belonged to Oberon for the moment. It wasn’t enough for him to accept the king’s caresses – he must welcome them, must eagerly seek to give himself over to Oberon. He must submit to the king, but he must also remain _present_ and . . . committed to his role. He couldn’t slack off with this. This was the service the king required.

Dean sighed. “Just so you know . . . if I had the choice . . . I would never have agreed to this. To sleep with you. No offense.”

“Understood.”

“I hope so.”

Forcing his body to relaxation and acceptance, Dean let his body grow heavy and felt himself anchored to the Earth. He met Oberon’s eyes.

The words came to him from somewhere, “I wish to give myself to the King of Faerie.”

“The gift is well-given and will be treasured.”

Dean forced himself to hold Oberon’s eyes and not let his mind drift way. He couldn’t just _let_ it happen – he had to give himself away with a willing heart. Maybe he wouldn’t feel it at first, but he would ‘fake it till he makes it’. 

“Your wisdom does but enhance your fair face.”

Taking that as approval of what Dean was trying to do, he nodded. Dean stopped fighting his emotions and let Oberon see his nerves and unease. The king slid his hand from Dean’s shoulder up to his neck, leaving a trail of tingles behind. Oberon had the softest hands Dean had ever felt, but it seemed right that he would – no king should have calluses from rough work. He cupped Dean’s face and pulled him forward. Dean opened his mouth promptly to the urging from the fairy king, allowing him to push his tongue into Dean’s mouth.

But Dean realized that he wasn’t doing enough – accepting wasn’t what Oberon asked of him. He wanted Dean’s willing cooperation and commitment to the king’s pleasure. Dean yanked his attention back to what was happening to him, concentrating on what Oberon was doing, every sweep of his tongue or nibble of his teeth. He pushed all thoughts and worries out of his head.

As he focused on the immediate situation, Dean found every bit of resistance leaving his body. His surrender changed from willing and became eager. He offered Oberon everything he had. 

The king seemed to feel it when Dean let go of all his inhibitions and hesitations, and he deepened the kiss. Dean whimpered as his body responded without wavering to the firm hands caressing his skin and the skilled mouth drowning him with head-spinning kisses.

Oberon never stopped to let Dean catch his breath. Instead he pulled response after response from Dean’s body, until he couldn’t contain how he was reacting anymore, giving voice to his pleasure in whimpers and soft cries. Dean didn’t try to disguise how he was feeling, as he finally understood that this surrender to the pleasure Oberon evoked was the gift the king wanted. 

The king whispered to him, “Such sweet surrender, my lovely lad, my mortal joy. Give unto me all of thy bliss.”

The words were praise or encouragement or something that Dean didn’t really understand and didn’t have the brain cells to rub together at the moment to figure it out. His orgasm barreled out of him as Oberon caressed him expertly. The fairy king seemed to know exactly where to touch him and what Dean liked, which was oddly reassuring when it should have been creepy.

Boneless with satiation, Dean merely purred when Oberon entered him, moving his legs as the fairy king directed him. Unlike past experiences, having the king stroking inside him evoked only contentment, none of the shame and terror it usually engendered.

“Thus I return the gift and complete the cycle,” Oberon muttered as his body jerked and he spilled inside Dean.

Dean felt too peaceful to bother worrying about the unsafe sex. The thought that they’d barebacked flitted into his head and then flitted out again as the fairy king drew him close and settled them amongst the linens draping their bower. Dean wondered briefly why he didn’t feel the chill of the night air, but that thought died an early death too.

“Golden slumbers take thee to thy rest,” Oberon murmured.

When Dean drifted out of the most peaceful night’s sleep he’d had in more time than he liked to think, the small glade was full of golden light. Dean woke up, turning his head to find his bed companion watching him while lying unabashedly naked. Oberon dipped his head, giving Dean a kiss good morning that made his body tingle from his toes to the top of his head. 

He found again that the sense of eager surrender that he’d discovered the night before, and to his shock, Dean found himself saying, “How can I serve you?”

“Alas, but we have but a fair few moments to keep company,” Oberon said. 

He picked up a bowl that had been resting on a tree trunk. It seemed to full of some type of berries. When Dean opened his mouth to protest the rabbit food, Oberon popped the spoon in his mouth and Dean was left with a mouth full of sweetness, like something wild drenched with honey.

He allowed Oberon to feed him the whole bowl, surprised that he didn’t feel the slightest bit humiliated by the action. 

When he had finished the bowl, Oberon set it aside and stood up, holding his hand to help Dean up from their makeshift bed. Dean surveyed himself ruefully – he had bite marks on his shoulders and his flowers were drooping. Oberon had lost his tunic at some point, but Dean didn’t remember taking it off him.

The fairy king walked towards the wall of thorns and they parted obediently for their liege. Oberon led Dean back down the path and into the fairy court. Most of the gathering still slept in the early morning light. Some of them blinked sleepily as their king walked by with his toy from the previous night. Dean paid them no mind, concentrating instead on the king.

The trees made a hall of sorts in the woodland and two small trees growing under the main canopy guarded the entrance to the fairy king’s court. Oberon halted there and turned to Dean.

He touched Dean’s belly, low down, just where his treasure trail spread out to become his pubes. “Thy body holds a store of my essence. Think on that vital spark when the world grows weary.”

Normally Dean would have snickered like a middle school kid at the reminder of exactly what ‘essence’ was inside him, but he restrained himself. The sense of calm from the previous night was fading, leaving behind apprehension about what faced him back in the real world, but he valued the gesture.

“Thank you,” was all he said.

Oberon picked up a bundle and hand it to Dean. It was his clothes, neatly laundered, pressed, and smelling of fresh fields. 

“In Elfland, time flows not as it does in the outer world. Mayhap time runs more fleeting in the world and those who journey to my lands return to find the world has rushed on without them. You have pleased me well, and thus I do ensure that you have tarried but a moment in my bower and you return nearly when you left.”

Untangling that statement, Dean exhaled a breath of relief. He’d feared waking up like Rip Van Winkle. He put on his clothes, appreciating their crisp freshness, but also feeling odd to be wearing them again, as if he’d spent years naked in Oberon’s service instead of a single night.

Oberon kissed him gently and then motioned for him to step under the arch made by the trees.

Dean walked under the lowered branches and stumbled as his feet encountered furrows instead of the drifts of leaves that he expected. Looking around, Dean found himself back in the cornfield. Raising his hand to his hair, he found only one flower still lingering in the short strands.

Opening his hand, Dean saw the red petals of the Love-in-idleness. He touched it gently, scarcely able to believe what had just happened to him. He knew he should get going, find Sam, work the case, but it was hard to move.

He whispered softly, “I have had a dream, past the wit of man to say what dream it was.”

Tucking the flower carefully into his pocket, Dean set off through the cornstalks, back to his real life.


End file.
